The Sweet Escape
by bookluver127
Summary: Is it possible to disappear? Society's been whispering about the whereabouts of Rory Gilmore and Logan Huntzberger for the past 5 years. Now, they've returned to Hartford, and it's time to face the firing squad...


**So, I found myself writing again after updating my profile. I'm not promising anything, but I think this might be the last and greatest reincarnation of TSL, which I've revamped at least four times in the past 10 months. So, without further ado, I present the revamped again version of Chapter 1. I think it's the one. What about you? **

**PS, this is unbetaed, but I did do several proofreads! **

**10/20/11: I've deleted the other two chapters. Welcome to a new age, my dear readers! I've changed details slightly; Rory may seem slightly OOC, but remember, she's had to adapt and change to an entirely different country and their social customs. We'll still see our quirky pop cultured oriented younger Gilmore around the place! **

**Disclaimer: I may own the entire 7 seasons on DVD. ASP owns all. **

**Chapter 1: Popeye to the Rescue  
**

She couldn't help but feel some twinge of sympathy for him. Brigitte was known as the neighborhood "bike," if you will, and everyone couldn't help but grimace when they saw yet another one in her clutches. While the 5th arrondissement was nothing to sniff at, the 6th was where the expats and summer visitors would come to congregate; leaving locals meant an influx in tourists. However, there would occasionally be some foreigner who'd drift over to where she was, and thus land in Brigitte's clutches.

Rory sighed, and then turned to look at Amélie, a friend who she'd met at the bookstore she worked at. Amelie was the stereotypical American ideal of the lithe and blonde Frenchwoman (except that she dyed it a dark brown), always dressed to perfection and ready to go out. A student at the Sorbonne who Rory had met at the bookstore where she worked, they met every few days or so for a drink at Zazie, a neighborhood hotspot. Turning to Rory, she spoke, "So, I see that Brigitte is at it again, no?" Rory twirled her wine glass, already slightly buzzed; there had been an unexpected flood of tourists at the bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, that day. "Oh yes, she is. I swear, that woman is descended from an octopus; it's the only logical reason for how many men she has attached to her. Ursula would be so proud. There should be a patent on those suction cups of hers. God knows that I need new ones for the shower that won't fall all the time," she complained, rolling her eyes. Amelie laughed, crinkling her nose. "Did she ruin another sale for you? You're always much more, what's the word…oh yes, _acerbic_ when she does it. Stop looking like such a sour lemon dear; you'll get wrinkles! Plus, you can't blame her, darling. The one she's got ensnared right now is quite the looker." Rory snorted, "Of all things, you just have to think that! You wouldn't feel the same way if she'd ruined the sale of the Balzac."

Amelie gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. "She didn't!" she loudly said, looking apologetic when the other diners turned their way. Rory nodded her head emphatically. "She _did,_ and it was _**La Comédie humaine**_ at that! I've been trying to sell it for ages, because it always falls of the shelf onto my foot, and I finally found a buyer-that guy over there with her, actually. He was just about to say yes, I was so sure of it! It was going to be 'goodbye constantly bruised toes'! And then in she comes, waltzing in with that coquettish look she has when she's on the prowl." Rory paused to imitate the look, with an exaggerated batting of the lashes, which sent Amelie into another fit of giggles. "And that was that, goodbye prospective customer!" Rory exclaimed, with a flourish of her arms. "Hey, she knows where to find them," Amelie chimed." Rory acquiesced to that fact. "She was spot on with this one. The Italian hand sewn loafers weren't hard to miss, nor was the Patek Philippe watch." At this, Amelie clapped her hands. "Oh Rory, I'm so proud! Wait till I tell Laurent! Our little padawan has become a Jedi Knight!" This made Rory almost snort her wine; Amelie was such a contradiction sometimes, in appearance versus personality. "Oh, I feel so accomplished!" she chuckled. The two girls suddenly heard a loud obnoxious trill of laughter, coming from the corner. Brigitte was now running her fingers casually in her hair while trying to eat a piece of bread. Her companion looked slightly bored, his feet tapping underneath his seat and his fingers drumming quick patterns on the table. Rory finally got a good look at him. He was quite handsome in that playboy way, with hazel eyes and mussed blond hair. The guy also probably had a trust fund of some inconceivable amount. Oh yes, it was one of those...

"Wow," Rory said, speechless. "Oh yes, _wow," _Amelie murmured, looking at the man over her wine glass. "No, I mean _wow _about what Brigitte's doing. Although I will admit that he's slightly _wow_," she said with a slight blush. The wine was starting to get to her, and she was tired from a long day of work. It wasn't that she hated the bookstore; by no means, to occupy a space that had supplied Hemingway with books was something that made her grin like a besotted fan girl. That, and being able to read whatever she wanted. Yet, thinking back about the year she'd had, it had not gone as she'd planned.

She'd been in Rome with Grandma, and had been doing alright, but the constant traveling was getting tiring. On a spur of the moment decision, she'd taken the sleeper train to Verona, before transferring to another Eurostar that went to Paris. The initial plan was to travel through Europe and stay in hostels on her own, returning for the new school year. But, finding a hostel for a few nights before going off on her own had gone awry; she'd ended up staying at the "Tumbleweed Hotel." Located at Shakespeare and Company, the "hotel" was where unlucky young writers could stay, as long as they'd "read a book a day" and help out for an hour. Here, her luck had turned. The owner had taken a liking to Rory, and eventually she went from the "Tumbleweed" to the "Writer's Room" where there were actual beds and not just sleeping berths.

With her money soon running out and the summer almost over, George, the owner, had offered her a job, which came with a work visa, and the rest was history. A job at one of the touristy cafés along with her job at the register of the bookstore enabled her to have enough money to share a small flat with a roommate, who thankfully stayed most nights at her boyfriend's and only kept the place so that her parents would be none the wiser. Having a flat meant that she had a gas bill, which was the thing that made you a citizen in France. (No gas bill=you don't exist) After six months of working two jobs nonstop, Rory was able to quit the waitressing one. Sporadic travel articles and such in various magazines had helped, as did living on bread and cheese for the first month and a half.

She hadn't expected to stay in Paris permanently, but it'd turned into one of the best decisions she'd ever made. Not having the town, Yale, or her family around her had helped her gain understanding in her relationship with Dean. They'd both been blinded by the past, the "what could have been," to see that they had just drifted too far apart. His jealousy and insecurities combined with the fact that their social and economic situations were so far apart just contributed to the degradation of their relationship; it wasn't fair to Lindsay either. It was just inevitable that it would end. These new revelations didn't mean, though, by any means, that she had been ready to return home in December. Rory would just cringe every time she'd think of Lorelai's reaction and the disappointment she'd been to her grandparents. No, it was just better for everyone that she'd not return for a year, to let everything settle. She'd just have to manage in Paris with bad coffee at every turn. As for Jess, it was interesting while it lasted. He'd shared her tastes and was a great kisser, but wasn't the greatest when it came to being there for her. And in the end, he had run.

So, Paris had become her home. Ironic, really, seeing as she'd have run from the other Paris if asked to voluntarily stay with her three years ago. It'd been an adjustment; the coffee wasn't all that great, drinking water was practically nonexistent, and line cutting was rampant, but she'd survived. She had two feet of counter space, actually used the oven to store dishes and not shoes, and her refrigerator was tiny. Cheese was now of the gooey and pungent variety, and not in a can, because the former was cheaper than the latter. Tater tots weren't a weekly thing, but rather once every few months if manageable; a good burger was nonexistent, but it was ok; a pâtisserie was around the corner from her apartment. Laundry days consisted of various strings around the flat and the windows open to dry them, but it was alright. She'd made a living, managed to survive. Her French was proficient enough, although occasionally the people surrounding her would gasp in horror when she incorrectly pronounced a word and mistakenly said something unmentionable. She'd joined the expat world and had done it with relative ease compared to many others.

Amalie's circle eventually became her circle; she had someone to bring her soup when she was sick, someone with whom she could talk and shop. The several expats who were in the circle would bring back Cheez Whiz, Red Vines, and Jet Puffed Mallows for Rory every time they returned home. The first gift she'd received from one of them was a Region 2 version of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory. With them came intellectual conversation, class notes on whatever they were studying, and companions at the bar to drink with until one of them fell asleep. They'd taught her to live a little, to be more carefree and not think about every single detail. She now knew where the best places were to find cashmere sweaters on a budget, how to put together outfits in that Parisian way where it seems to casual yet looks good. None of them knew exactly why she was there, but Rory preferred it that way. There was no stigma attached to her, no title of home wrecker or the other woman.

"Rory, you there," Amelie interrupted, waving her hand in front of her face. Rory slowly blinked, looking up from her glass. She nodded, "Yeah, just thinking about the past. It's been a long day." Her friend nodded in understanding; she never asked Rory about her past. It was just an unsaid rule; while there was obviously something going on in Rory's family life, it wasn't her place to probe it. Their relationship was lighthearted, and would stay that way until some further signal from Rory. Amelie nodded again, this time towards Brigitte and her prey, "Look at what just happened."

The man had attempted to get up, presumably to go to the bathroom and just leave, but Brigitte had had a firm hand around his arm. She'd escalated to running her nails up and down his forearm, while attempting to sensually lick a spoonful of chocolate mousse. Rory found herself meeting the man's eyes, a clear plead of "save me" in them. She raised her brow, and then set down her wineglass. Turning to Amelie, she gave a saucy wink. "Wish me luck! Let's see if I can get him to buy the Balzac for this." She laughed, and then wished her luck. Sticking her clutch under her arm, Rory pushed in the bar stool and walked over to their table in the corner. "Oh my god, is that you?" she asked him loudly. He stood up, and she embraced him. "What's your name?," she hissed in his ear. "Logan," he murmured. "And thanks, by the way." She silently chuckled, "Yeah, yeah. Thank me when this is over." She stepped back from him, pausing to look him over. "Logan, I wasn't expecting to see you at all! I mean, it's been so long!" she trilled, putting on a ditzy act. She then turned to look at the girl, "Why, Brigitte, I didn't know you knew him!" Brigitte smiled thinly, her eyes narrowing slightly in annoyance. "Oh yes, we just met today." Rory made a moue of acknowledgement. "Ah, I see. Well, you won't mind if I take him now, do you? I mean, you are done eating already. Plus, I haven't seen him since the golfing tournament at the club two years ago." She pulled a chair over from the table adjacent. "Don't you remember, Logan? The most odious woman alive was there, as you must recall." Logan laughed. "Right, Gloria. Who wouldn't forget her?" Rory's mouth opened in shock, before she quickly closed it. "Oh yes, after that fuss she made at the auction. Anyways, you wouldn't mind cutting your date short to come see me, would you? I mean, who knows how long you'll be in Paris anyways!" Logan turned to Brigitte, looking apologetic. "You wouldn't mind, would you? It's been so long since we've seen one another. My mother just wouldn't forgive me if I didn't." He had turned on the charm thick, with the sad smile and pleading tone. "Oh, it's alright, I suppose," Brigitte said. "Thank you so much," he replied, tossing several bills on the table. He and Rory stood up and walked out, muttering a "See you later" as they hurried their way out of the restaurant. Rory turned back to give a quick wave to Amelie, who managed to stop her chuckling to return the gesture.

As soon as they made it outside, Rory began to collapse in laughter. "Well, that turned out better than I thought it would. I swear, I could just feel my IQ plummeting a point per second," she said, turning to Logan with a shy smile. He grinned in return, "You've got that right. I'm amazed though, I didn't expect a fellow American to rescue me, especially one that categorized me correctly. I am unashamedly a member of the country club. It's strange that you know it though." She shrugged nonchalantly, hiding her discomfort. "What can I say? I'm no Nostradamus; I'm just extraordinarily good at reading people." "I'm sure you are," he acknowledged, still slightly mystified.

They were now walking down the street, wandering aimlessly through the crowds. "So," he ventured, "how can I thank you?" Rory waved away his question. "Oh, it was really no big fuss. I've been dying to get back at Brigitte; she has a habit of trolling around the bookstore where I work, as if it were Hollywood Boulevard and she was Vivian Ward with the stripper and boots and no ambition other than to snag a rich one! So really, don't make a big fuss over it. I've seen her do it many times before; she's an octopus, a very slutty octopus with very firm suction cups. It's really not a big deal; just call me Popeye."

She then quickly pushed her way through the crowd people, weaving her way through the Place Contrescarpe and through the Rue Mouffetard, making multiple turns here and there through the crowd to end up in a little courtyard that surrounded a massive gnarled and twisted chestnut tree, a single street lamp lighting up the area. She'd purposely taken advantage of a large group to try and lose Logan; his remark had put her on edge.

Meanwhile, Logan had followed her after she'd suddenly slipped through the crowd. She was like an eel, slipping through the narrowest places and cracks. He didn't know where she was going, but decided to follow her. She had intrigued him, with her performance at the restaurant. Her reaction to him naming the "most odious woman alive" as "Gloria" hadn't slipped by him, although her look of shock was only there for a few seconds. Everyone in Hartford society knew of her, acting polite because she was on the DAR and her husband was the CEO of a high ranking Fortune 500 hundred company. There was only one way she'd have known, and that was to have been part of Hartford society itself. However, he'd never come across her in his time at the club, nor at any of the multiple parties thrown for holidays, birthdays, etc. That being said, he purposely made his footsteps louder once she stopped in the courtyard. She turned quickly and looked at him. "Fudge."


End file.
